Unbroken Home
by Dixon Oriole
Summary: For rukia02! Max is kind. Tarou is civil. Judy is a problem. And everybody makes an effort.


_Disclaimer_: I claim nothing! If you want it, Mr. Aoki Takao, please, take it!

Unbroken Home

By: Dixon Oriole

* * *

It would have been okay, if it was anyone else. 

At the Kinomiya dojo these things happened more than was strictly necessary… almost frequently, when they numbered more than five or six. Inevitably schedules became tangled, doors weren't sufficiently locked and/or closed, people weren't properly informed… When one was only half awake, one could find difficulty in distinguishing steam from cloudy sleep. At least that was what Max had guffawed, dodging a flung loufa, stumbling out of the bathroom with a vengeant Hilary on his heels. Abruptly awakened to the horror of his mistake.

But Max had never shied from horror. More often than not, next to Tyson with some popcorn, he found it unbearably funny. And more often than not, when everyone else got over their embarrassment, they found it funny too. He helped them, reminding at his own expense of the many times (more than was strictly necessary) they had seen him in the _same_ position. The almost frequent times their betting on things ended in his nakedness. Streaking around the dojo. Hanging out in the living room until Gramps came home… Those kinds of embarrassing, hilarious times.

He helped them realize it was okay. He wasn't making fun. Nobody cared. He was over it and none the worse for wear, right? They'd raise an eyebrow and almost smile, shaking their heads in silence as the tension drained away. They'd let him sling an arm around their still-moist shoulders and squeeze them a little in comradely understanding, disarming them, blue eyes wide and genuine and grin pure sympathy.

They'd warn him to maybe _try _and be more careful next time? Slink away still shaking their heads, now smiling too. He'd watch them go, rubbing his forehead, all wry understanding that there'd be payback next time they were betting on things.

In any case, _this_ time, for the first or second time in his life, Max didn't know what to do.

Fling a loufa? Scream? So he blushed, because even though he'd gotten over it _before _and been none the worse for wear all _those_ times… this time seemed distinctly different. It seemed distinctly as though he couldn't just turn his back with a coquettish wink, and fifteen minutes later emerge all slung arms and genuine eyes. Running damage control.

Assuring, over their apologies, that he just didn't _care_. What's more, shouldn't they have been used to it? Happened often enough. And they'd throw the blame back at him, maybe _try _to be more careful next time? And he'd nod, so indulgent, and let them slink away shaking their heads and smiling.

But this, he decided, standing there under the last drips of warm water, shivering in the draft, fingers frozen on the open curtain—this was _not _one of those times. This was _not _something he could smile away. He felt distinctly as though, when water streamed down his forehead into his eyes, stinging—as though it would have been okay if it was _anyone _else.

Dad, Tyson, Daichi, Rei, Hilary, Gramps… even freaking Kai. The All-Starz, any of the White Tigers—Mariah had screamed at HIM, when she'd seen him, which he'd mentioned later and that had been _awesome _the way Lee staggered—… No. Anyone else, he couldn't even muster a blush.

And it wasn't like she was a stranger. He was used to doctors and hospital gowns, and the people mowing their lawns when he streaked by? Kids on bikes or grownups walking barking dogs?—he just laughed at them. He wasn't embarrassed around his friends, he wasn't afraid of strangers, his family—… half of his family…

Max exhaled, and dived for the towel rack. Lost purchase on the slippery floor of the shower and tripped half-out, slamming one shin on the edge. Landed in a groaning heap on the bathmat and clutched, swearing, at his bruised leg. Paused, as a towel came into view hanging by his face, and looked up at the knit-browed, grinning Judy Mizuhara… Max grinned awkwardly back, wondering if his wet face was hot enough to steam, and nodded, when she asked, "My_ Maxie_, Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Judy dropped the towel onto her son's head and ruffled his hair through it, chuckling a little. Very sympathetic sounding, Max thought, surprised at the fact. Bitter at the foreignness. Climbing to his feet with the towel held between them. He was shaky, embarrassed. Was this how his friends used to feel when he walked in on—? No. You couldn't be so scared around your friends! Or your family— Max, wrapping the towel around his waist, glanced up through his eyelashes, and Judy's bright blue eyes were wide, completely genuine… her smirk was entirely sympathetic. She reached an arm out to sling it around Maxie's dripping shoulders, but he recoiled.

Judy's kind face froze. So did her hand, in the middle of the steamy bathroom air, half-reached to comfort him because, "Maxie, I'm your mother…" She tilted her head to the side, eyes momentarily sharp (Max bitter at the familiarity of the look), coquettish smile almost curling into a grimace, "It's fine if_ I_ see you naked..!"

She seemed puzzled and a little suspicious. From a scientific standpoint, Max supposed, it made approximately NO sense. From a scientific standpoint, children were meant to trust their parents wholeheartedly, their mothers in particular. Because from a scientific standpoint, there was maternal instinct, there was—a blood bond, there was… offspring from one's uterus… and _carrying_ for _months_ and… Max watched Judy, from an uncomfortable red face, thinking that there was breastfeeding. And changed diapers.

Judy was growing cross as the illogic swelled in her brain. Max could tell. He let out a shuddering breath, dodged past her, and made a show of rummaging around at the sink, putting his toothbrush back into the cabinet. Burying the awkwardness in activity. "Were you looking for something..?" He had to make an effort to sound nonchalant. That more than anything convinced him this was different. Not because she was a friend, or family, or a stranger—because she was his mother. And despite breastfeeding, around her it seemed distinctly _wrong_… to be very comfortable.

She was the one person—

Judy's arm, outstretched to comfort him, dropped. "Nail clippers. I'm very sorry, Max." Her voice was both painfully faint and painfully concise.

"No big deal!" he chirped, wheeling around to see how much damage he'd caused. "Just try to be more careful next time?"

They paused. Staring at one another. Judy as though Max was a microscopic slide with too many bubbles in it to read. Max as though Judy was mad at him. She didn't understand the level of discomfort—but not like he did either! Both of their faces were red. Maybe she should have been around as often as his dad, or his friends, or—or the neighbors down the street! He knew the barking dogs they walked by NAME! At least he knew what made them happy. At least he knew how to handle their embarrassment, their… Maybe he'd forgotten how to handle his own. Not like you could just turn your back with a wink and—!

Max, biting the inside of his lip, turned and left Judy standing, frowning, in the bathroom. He had to make an effort not to run.

* * *

"Well what did you expect?" Tarou Mizuhara asked, very slowly. Trying not to sound too irate. Well aware, as he dug his hands into the dishwater and came up with a sponge and a plate, that letting this spiral into an argument wouldn't be good for any one of them. There had been too many arguments over the years. Everybody just had to make an effort, if this was going to _work_. 

"I don't _know_..!" Judy retorted, voice like she was physically throwing up her arms in defeat. "I don't know… But he treated me like a stranger, and I don't like how that _feels_." She slumped back in her chair, one elbow propped on the kitchen table. Stretched a hand flat and examined her manicure, for lack of anything more comforting to concentrate on.

Tarou, dropping a plate with a clatter into the drying rack, made her jump. "What..?" Judy narrowed her eyes at his tension-stilled shoulders, until he fished out another plate, and went back to work. Then she went back to her manicure. "_What_, Tarou?"

"He didn't treat you like a stranger, Judy." A wearied sigh.

"…Then what on_ earth_ did he _treat _me like, Ta_rou_?" An accusation. She always got so defensive when she felt bad news around the corner. It made her almost unbearable to share things with. You didn't tell her and she walked out, you _did _tell her and she pouted for weeks. You couldn't help but keep things from her, just to salvage some civility. Salvage some dinner conversation. You got good at holding back the bad because… The good times were great. The bad were… catastrophic. Voluntarily on his part, he knew, but it was like having half a marriage.

Back when they'd even had half. Tarou turned around, leaning against the counter, drying his hands in a dishrag. His face was calm, but firm. It matched his voice. "Oh I don't know—maybe he treated you like an estranged mother?"

"But—" He watched her argument collapse. "But…" And Judy just look unpleasantly at her fingernails. Puzzling out a new course of action, a new route to victory. When she won, she could be so gracious. The good times were great.

But sometimes he got tired of the competition.

"You're saying he trusts strangers more than he trusts his own mother?" Judy asked. Snide. She was daring him to say it. Because of the implications, you know, he'd also he saying about_ Max_—how he had wires crossed in his _brain_ somehow, obviously, because that wasn't normal. He'd also be saying about flawed parenting and how he'd let their son wind up abnormal and—

"Yes," Tarou snapped. No longer shying from the horror. No longer willing to take all the bad in life upon himself, so that Judy wouldn't have to feel an ounce of it. No longer willing to let this marriage hobble him, or break him under the weight, all for the sake of HER. "And it's not weird. He can give strangers the benefit of the doubt, Judy. But you have hurt him in the past by way of emotional neglect. Not to mention your favoritism of the All-Starz."

"It was my _job_—" Judy paused. Clenched and unclenched her jaw. "Are you telling me to leave?"

"Oh please." A wearied sigh. "_I _asked you to come back. I just didn't think you'd expect so much of Max right off the bat. He's not _used_ to you being an actual _mother_ yet, Jude. He doesn't know how to react, when you bust into the bathroom and claim all the special privileges of a mom—"

"I didn't think he'd care!"

"_Judy_, you're not a normal person!" …Okay. Maybe rephrase that. Her face has never looked so twisted. "All I'm saying is he's not used to you filling out your—traditional roles. It's been a very long time. Unless you take baby steps with this you're just gonna freak him out more...! You can't really _blame_ him for being suspicious…" Oh jeeze, back-pedal. Tarou had never been able to ignore tears. "He really does_ love_ you, Jude. And in no time he—_won't _care. I'm sure of it—"

"I really didn't think he'd mind." Cold and formal. The most unapologetic apology in the world. Tarou twitched bitterly at the familiarity. "I didn't get any sense of this… _suspicion_… when I walked through the door." Flicking away a few tears; looking fiercely up at her estranged husband. "He hugged me, Tarou."

"I know he did…" But to Max, a hug was nothing. Friends, strangers, family—both halves of the family. He was used to Judy in a certain capacity. A distant sort of capacity in which hugs were on occasion acceptable. He admired her and was thankful to her and cared for her deeply. But he didn't count on her to wipe his nose when he cried, or make him soup when he was sick, or supply bandaids. Judy wasn't his mom in the sense of a_ mother_, counterpart to a _father_, with whom you share meaningful conversations and holiday festivities. She wasn't even the everday mom you could call on the phone to discuss _nothing_ meaningful with.

She wasn't a friend. She wasn't even enough of a stranger.

"Of course he did. He's always ecstatic to see you." Maybe bitter at the fact. "Because he isn't used to it."

Max could trust Judy to modify his beyblade to the best of her abilities. Hook him up with a plane ride, or a place on the All-Starz, if he was in need of one. But Max couldn't trust his mother to be there. And that was something he even trusted the neighbors down the street with.

"Please try to understand—" An EFFORT had to be made—

"Yes, fine." She waved him off. "…Alright." Sighing, at length. "Alright. I'll try not to expect him to accept me as his mother. Alright…" A shuddering breath. A few more tears quickly flicked away.

She was trying to sound more hurt than she actually was… It was a tired old way to win the battle. But Tarou thought, watching his estranged wife very narrowly, that she really was a bit _hurt_. So he crossed the kitchen in three steps and gathered her into his arms, and pretended not to notice when she wasn't crying any more. And how she didn't cling back. He'd never been able to ignore hurt. Even very little of it—even the little of it that Judy could muster. That's why he'd always lost their fights. But his voice was calm and firm, and willing to place some on the bad on _her _shoulders, for once, when he said, "We'll be a family again. Just let it be on Maxie's terms, okay, Jude? We've already made enough of these decisions without him."

"…Fine."

* * *

Max had heard them. He always heard them. He felt bad… He _always_ felt bad. 

So he'd gone out of his way to be very nice to Judy the next day, and treat her like a member of the family, and made an effort not to blush and recoil when she'd stared at him like he had to have wires crossed somewhere in his _brain_ when he burst into his parents' bedroom and jumped on the bed and announced they were going to pick pumpkins today, right? Right! Dad, you promised! Mom, it's tradition! Cummon, up with the sun!

Max, it's hardly up with the sun—it's already eleven.

Oh, whatev! Stop complaining and up, up, up, Popsicle! Momsy, that means you too! Did you pack gloves? It's freezing out! If we don't hurry up all the good ones will be taken and do you _really_ want a caved-in vegetable sitting on the porch? What will the neighbors think!

Slow down there, Maxiepie—

DAD, you KNOW I hate it when you call me that! That was my nickname in elementary school!

Right, right, sorry. But don't you want breakfast, Maxie? –I can still call you Maxie, right?

Yeah sure. Where's my scarf?

Wait… was that sure to _breakfast_, or—?

Mom! Why are you just standing there! I didn't know you had low blood pressure in the morning—!

I don't think people with low blood pressure only have it in the mornings, Maxie.

Semantics! Yes. Breakfast. Can I have French toast? No wait! That'll take too long! We're rushing! Mother you absolutely _must _get dressed! Can I have an omelet? Tyson is coming over …Oh _what_? Can't a guy affect a British accent if he wants to, _jeeze_.

He avoided Judy's gaze—foreign in its warmth and appreciation—by staring hard at the coffee maker. Trying hard, for the first or second time in his life, not to be bitter at the foreignness. "Dad, Mom needs coffee. She's positively sluggish this morning."

"Well you make it! You know how! This omelet can't flip itself, Young Man! Judy, want yours Western?"

"Of course she does!" Max glanced in her direction, feeling sorry about the slightest blush on his cheeks. "You do, right?" Judy nodded. And smiled. And for once it didn't take an effort. And conspicuously (at least to Tarou) she did NOT examine her pristine cuticles for comfort. Judy conspicuously did not look at her nails as a reassuring example of cause and effect. Ask for a French tip. Receive a French Tip. _Honestly _the world made more sense in a nail parlor than it ever had at home.

But for once the chaos didn't feel too bad. For once there wasn't any horror to shy from. Judy watched Max pawing through the cupboards for coffee filters—still speaking about nothing meaningful in a_ terrible_ Cockney accent—and Tarou cutting up peppers—speaking calmly right back in a somewhat more convincing French accent—both pairs of shoulders conspicuously devoid of tension. Both her estranged husband and estranged son making an effort that she couldn't help but notice. And for once the joy in Max's laughter outweighed any concern Judy had over the alarm clock not working.

* * *

She didn't ask where they'd found a pumpkin patch in _Bey City_, East coast _Japan_, even though from a scientific standpoint it made approximately NO sense. Which was progress in and of itself. And she made an effort to pretend that her son's blushing, as the friendliness and familiarity wore on through the afternoon, was simply because of the frosty fall air. And she appreciated Tyson and Tarou for making it easier than it had been in the bathroom half a lifetime ago. 

They kept the conversation going. Friends and family kept Max at ease. Even strangers, a little girl and her older sister wandering the pumpkin patch with a wheelbarrow, loosened him up more than she'd have thought possible. One golden retriever later, her estranged son Maxie Mizuhara could even race back, hopping rows of pumpkins, and skid to a panting halt at her side. Catch her around the waist for balance, and hold on there in a hug. He could even meet her eyes, wide blue and genuine, and pull away with her gloved hand in his. Pull her a few feet towards Tyson and Tarou helping the strange girls with, from a scientific standpoint, the biggest pumpkin in the WORLD.

And then he could look back at her, weaving their fingers, even (after a pause to decide if her blush was just the chilly air—deciding to pretend it was) coquettishly winking. Saying in the most ridiculous, wonderful Cockney, "I wouldn't mind if you kissed me on the cheek now, Momsy."

Judy made an effort not to pause and psyche herself out of it. She leaned forward and pecked Max lightly on the wind-cooled cheek, bumping their temples momentarily together, saying, in what was quantitatively the worst British accent that had ever existed, "Fix your scarf, Maxiepie. You'll catch cold."

He laughed. Effortlessly.

And for the first or second time in her life, Judy Mizuhara enjoyed receiving something on someone else's terms.

* * *

_a/n: _Dedicated again and over again to **rukia02**! It's your request!fic! I hope you liked it! I hope I didn't butcher your ideas too badly! I enjoyed writing this quite a lot, you know, so thank you for asking! Ee, please don't be disappointed..? 

Also, if anyone's wondering, everything is on purpose. Fall, as a setting, is decidedly best. And not just because you get to say "muffler". Repetition equals Recurring!Themes or sumfing. Momsy and Popsicle, as names, belong to Galinda of _Wicked._ But that's what I call my parents, so. "Vengeant" is NOT a word, but like predatively, it SHOULD be. The title is crap and reminiscent of a bad love song or five, but I couldn't figure out how to make "fixer upper home/family thing" not sound awkward. Golden retrievers and wheelbarrows are cute. Butchered accents are commonplace in the Mizuhara household. **feather-duster**, if you're jealous of the length, I would be too. Next time have favorite characters that are EASY FOR ME TO WRITE. But also don't, because pain is good for me. Uh. I love you? THIS IS ME PLUGGING **feather-duster** I'M PLUGGING **feather-duster** NOW IT'S LIKE PRODUCT PLACEMENT **feather-duster** **feather-duster**! The optimism of this piece is a direct result of you! I haven't the slightest idea if they grow pumpkins in Japan. Speaking of pumpkins, _picking_ them is absolutely the Great American Pastime. If anybody out there thinks it's Baseball… you're lying. Wanna fight about it?

ALSO PLZ REVIEW YAHTHNX WOOOO!


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